June 17, 2013 · 2:09 pm

Out of Sorts

I’ve been away for a couple of weeks with the kids, visiting my mom in Oklahoma while new floors were installed and repairs were made to our house.

Out in the country, the Wi-Fi was slow, and went out for a while because my iPhone quickly drained the daily broadband limit my mom wasn’t aware they had. I was surprised by how anxious I got with no internet connection for eight hours, and I’m almost convinced to try a technology detox for a few weeks, just to see if I can.

I can’t.

It was a great visit, and we returned home Saturday with no car puking, celebrated Father’s Day as a family, and I’m sitting here this morning trying to write.

However, the environment is not conducive to writing. Or anything else really.

I’m a person who takes great comfort in my home. It’s not that I’m obsessive about cleaning it, or having everything in its place at all times, but I like to know where things are. I like to be able to get to what I need and be surrounded by the things that are important to me.

The contractor still has some work to do on it today, so I can’t really put anything back where it is supposed to go yet either.

Three closets stacked on bed. It's making me twitch.

Three closets stacked on one bed. It’s making me twitch.

Most of my house looks like this.

My daughter woke up last night sick, coughing and crying, and the chair I normally rock her in was out in the garage. Until my husband moved it back inside at 3 am, I couldn’t comfort her the way I’m used to comforting her. With snuggles, hugs, and holding her close until she feels better.

It’s like someone turned my insides out, and said, here, walk around like this for a month or two. Be very careful not to puncture anything important. Oh and hey, people are coming over to visit–put on your best intestine cover up, try to stay out of the way and act normal.

So, I’m stressed, out of sorts, and generally not in a great mood. It will be a little longer until I’m back to blogging consistently, but it’s summer time so I’m not that worried about it.

On the bright side, the house looks pretty great underneath this layer of dust, and I think we will be able to sell it easily when we finally get it ready to show. Also, while I was away, I hit 1,000 followers.

Yay!

At least a third of them are probably spam bots, but it still feels pretty good to hit that milestone. Forgive the not-so-humble brag.

If I missed any posts that you’re particularly proud of, let me know, and I’ll go read them now that I’m home.

Missed you all!

 

 

 

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May 31, 2013 · 1:41 pm

And Now, Deep Thoughts

I have some random questions and thoughts today. If you have time, or anything piques your interest, feel free to answer in the comments section. I’d love to hear from you.

  1. Dear Lunchlady, Please go to Frisbee throwing school. Thanks, Franks

    Dear Snack Lady,
    Please go to Frisbee throwing school.
    Thanks,
    Franks

    Can anyone teach me how to throw a Frisbee? Do you think dogs can be exasperated, because every time I try to throw ours for Frankie to fetch at the park, it flails end over end, and then lands half the distance I intended it to go before awkwardly rolling the last few feet. Frankie will run half-heartedly after it, aggressively pee on stuff on his way back, and then he gives me the, “You throw like a girl,” look and says with his eyes, “When is the big guy getting home from work?”

  2. I’m reading a book (trying to read a book) that is/was on the best seller list. On page 20, the author actually uses lol in the middle of her dialogue. This occurs three more times in the next 20 pages with two other characters, and now I don’t think I can finish reading it. When did lol become acceptable to say outside of the internet and an AOL chat room?
  3. What is the proper sorting pile for wedding photos from a marriage that is over and produced no children? Keep, Dumpster, or Keep and Hide. I still have the photos from my first wedding. They were insanely expensive, and some of the people who attended that wedding are no longer with us. There is also a stupid big, nicely framed bridal portrait of me at age 22. I’ll never look that young and fresh again, but I will also never hang it in my home for obvious reasons, the least of which is lacking the ego I imagine it would take to display such a large photo of oneself. So, what to do with them, what to do?
  4. Where the fuck is Woody’s hat and my daughter’s other pink Croc? Two things that have inexplicably disappeared from my house.
  5. What is this demon allergen that has blown in over the last few days, and when is it going to leave so I can breathe again?
  6. Why would someone name a children’s show Doc McStuffins and expect me not to laugh?
  7. Is shooting nose spray in each nostril, bending over to keep it from running down the back of your throat, then standing up too fast and getting dizzy anything like doing whip-its? Because I think I just did a whip-it. If you’re old enough, you’re singing a Devo song now aren’t you?
  8. Seriously, I’m not sure I can finish this list. I think I’m high.
  9. Do you ever have days where you wish you could still smoke a bowl and listen to music with your skin for a few hours. What soundtrack would you choose? What? No? …never mind. Pretend I never said that.
  10. I recently got my feelings hurt because I wasn’t invited to a baby shower that I didn’t really want to go to. So what’s it like to have a penis? I bet it’s neat.

Hope you all have a great weekend!

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May 27, 2013 · 2:29 pm

Movin’ On Up

Interest rates for home financing are ridiculously low right now.

I’m sure you’re all aware of that, but if you didn’t know, now you know. For a 30 year fixed rate mortgage, interest rates are under 4%.

credit: 4starsigns.com

credit: 4starsigns.com

After a lot of discussion, we are getting ready to put our house on the market. If it doesn’t sell, we’ll refinance our current mortgage and significantly cut our housing expenses. If it does sell, we should be able to move up without as much financial strain as we would face at higher interest rates.

Getting ready to move is a huge pain in the ass, and I haven’t been writing much because I have been knee-deep in all my things. My house looks like an episode of Hoarders, and I’m wrestling with the four decision piles. Keep, sell, donate, or dumpster.

Here are some things I’ve learned so far:

  1. We have entirely too much crap.
  2. It’s easier to part with that crap when faced with the reality of having to pack and move it. Haven’t used it in a year, it’s gone. No function in a new space, gone. Clothes that don’t fit anymore and aren’t part of a nostalgic concert t-shirt collection? Donate. I’ve been trying to do this and get organized for years, but now I’m really doing it.
  3. The appeal of the e-reader is never greater than when you’re packing box after box of books. I can’t bear to part with most of mine, even the shitty ones. 15 boxes and counting.
  4. The list of things that we need to fix and update in our home is long, expensive, and overwhelming. Power wash everything and shave the dog. Caulk all the cracks! New paint inside and out, new back fence, repair garage door opener that has been broken for three years, new blinds, steam clean the tile and grout, wash the baseboards, actually decorate with something other than children’s toys, new flooring. Everything I’ve ever thought would be nice to do around here will be done in the next few weeks. For someone else to enjoy. An interesting life metaphor if you care to explore it.
  5. Storage buildings are expensive.
  6. The DIY Network and HGTV are on the television more now, that is, when my daughter will allow us to switch over from Toy Story. I feel like all these “Crashers” shows give me unrealistic expectations for my trips to Home Depot and Lowe’s. I fully expect someone to approach me followed by cameras and come landscape my yard for free. I’m disappointed every time it doesn’t happen. I laughed for five full minutes when I heard someone on the DIY network say silicone caulk yesterday because I’m super mature.
  7. The most common question that I get asked now when talking about this, is what school district do we want to be in? Have I researched elementary schools and high schools? On a limited basis, I have, but I still have a part of me that wonders how important the quality of the elementary school really is. I went to grade school in a three room, rural school-house, and was fine. I attended the one high school that was available to us–it was fine. I’m not sure how to adjust to this momster mentality that every school my daughter attends has to be perfect, even the pre-school. We’re still just coloring and learning not to shit in our pants, right? I know, I know, it’s important. I’ll get there.
  8. In searching through homes for sale on the internet, it took me exactly fifteen minutes to turn into one of those people on House Hunters that I hate, complaining about wallpaper, borders and ruling out a listing based on a kitchen that doesn’t open up to the living space and has the wrong color cabinets. Didn’t think I had that in me either. I was wrong.
  9. I will make shit up to achieve the symmetry of a list of ten.
  10. I can see the garage floor for the first time ever since moving in here. Tada…ten. (That’s actually true, but probably not interesting to anyone but me).

Our friends put their house up for sale Friday night. By Saturday evening, they had three full price offers on it. The market is smoking hot and probably headed for another crash.

But we’re doing it.

Since I stopped working, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to curb the desire for material things, and it’s interesting how this process has re-awakened that wanting. I want a big spacious floor plan and a beautiful outdoor living space. I want two or three bedrooms and an office. I want a bathtub big enough to swim in and a nice kitchen. I want some new furniture to go with it. I want to not feel so disgusted with myself for wanting these things. I want this post to be funnier and sound less pretentious.

I don’t always get what I want.

It’s a steady stream of need vs. want evaluations lately, but for now at least, I know that I’ll be hissy fit free even if we don’t get any of those things.

But that’s what’s going on here.

My posting will probably be even more sporadic for the next few weeks, but I’ll still be around reading your stuff.

Is anyone else getting ready to move or in the process of refinancing your mortgage?

Good times, right?

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May 15, 2013 · 2:47 pm

Normal

I’m sick of the cold weather. I can’t wait for summer to get here.

I want to go to the lake, to the beach, to the park for a picnic. I want to pick flowers and go to Barton Springs and the splash parks again…

Fuck, it’s too hot to do anything.

Summer is never going to end.

I just want to unpack my sweat pants and eat soup all day. I want to cover my leg and arm skin and trade this salad for mashed potatoes.

Every year with the weather and the food.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting…for what I’m not sure. The perfect set of conditions where I’ll finally be happy I guess.

Julia Cameron encourages a practice in writing called Morning Pages. I do this. First thing in the morning, I sit down and either handwrite or type whatever comes to mind.

I'll take the ten pack of no whining, please. Credit: shopwaze.com

I’ll take the ten pack of no whining, please. Credit: shopwaze.com

I call them my Whiny Pages. I rarely read back on them after I close the page because it is mostly just a stream of negativity and hurt feelings. It’s a safe place where I can vent, be a downer, and complain. It helps prevent me from unleashing that on people throughout my days. It helps put things in perspective. Because when you write down the feelings you have, you can see how ridiculous some of them are. You can also sort through the ones that are valid and need real attention.

I don’t love having this inner monologue written down, and I’d like to create some kind of burn sequence so that upon my passing, all of these pages will be destroyed. I don’t think anyone ever needs to have access to my unfiltered thoughts.

One of the biggest things I complain about in whiny pages is my routine. My normal. The boring parts of life, where I chafe from the life of a stay at home mom. The perceived loss of identity. The way people dismiss me. The sameness of each and every day. Pages and pages of insecurities.

Last week, I was sick with a sinus infection and bronchitis.

I didn’t do much of anything except try to breathe and sleep with a humidifier next to me. My daughter was bored. She watched a lot of television.

By day two of it, I was begging to be back to the normal I waste so much time complaining about.

The way I’d taken something as simple as breathing for granted became appalling to me.

My ingratitude–stark, ugly, and silently screaming from those pages.

I almost burned them all right then.

Then we got some bad news from a family member, and we went to visit them this past weekend.

The cancer is back. He started a new round of chemo Monday. The co-pay is almost unmanageable on a fixed income. The side effects predicted are debilitating. This treatment will last 16 weeks and then they’ll see.

He’s been fighting for ten years. This is another battle. They don’t know how it will go, but I know he and his wife would welcome my “normal” with a warm embrace–a visit from an old friend they probably don’t even recognize anymore.

I know I’ll lose and find this perspective over and over again for the rest of my life, and it borders on cliché to tell you to be thankful for whatever your normal might be today, but I’m hoping I can hold on a little longer to it this time.

I’m trying to finish this post, and my daughter is holding a pair of tweezers in my face and screaming, “Squeezers!”

That’s a normal morning, and for today at least, I have no complaints.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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May 1, 2013 · 2:29 pm

Gone Muddin’

The weather was cool when my cousin came to visit that year.

After a rainy day, he and my brother were getting ready to take the Jeep out mudding, a past time I never really understood because the chore of washing the vehicle seemed to outweigh the fun, but even without testosterone to guide me, I wanted to go with them.

My oldest brother is nine years older than me, and that age difference worked to my advantage when I was trying to tag along. He indulged me, even though at 16 or 17, I really doubt either of them wanted my company.

We all hopped in the Jeep and drove out into the pasture. Rag top removed, and music turned up loud. I don’t remember the cassette that was loaded so I’m going with Quiet Riot.

♫ Bang Your Head ♫

credit:

credit: cardomain.com

We came to a ditch that was full of rain water, and with the help of four-wheel drive, made it safely across it–then we got stuck.

Reverse, forward, reverse. Mud spitting up on all sides, splashing all over my face in the backseat, as our attempts to break free only buried the wheels deeper.

My brother was getting upset; he didn’t want to go back up to the house and tell dad he’d gotten the Jeep stuck again. But we had a tractor and chains to pull it free, and I’m pretty sure my dad had pulled every teenage boy in our family and extended family out of the same situation at one time or another. He’d even been stuck a few times himself, so I wasn’t worried.

Everyone got out of the Jeep and I was nominated to walk home and get help.

I was the only girl in our family so dad didn’t get as mad at me, and by the time we got back down there, he would have curbed most of his anger and rebuke.

The only problem was that I didn’t want to wade back through the ditch full of rain water we’d just crossed. I was trying not to be prissy in front of my cousin, but I really didn’t want to get my shoes and jeans muddy.

We carefully considered the problem, and the best solution we could come up with was for the two boys to toss me across the ditch where I would land safely, dry and mud free. With my cat-like landing skills, it was the only way this brilliant plan could possibly play out.

So one grabbed my arms, the other grabbed my legs, and they started swinging me.

“We’ll go on three, Chelle.”

“1, 2, 3…”

The release was solid, but at the top of my arch I saw with clarity how it would all play out.

I landed with a thud in the middle of the mud puddle, and immediately began to howl with outrage.

I looked back at the bank and the boys were bent over clutching their stomachs and rolling with laughter, which pissed me off even more.

I made a face that would rival any grumpy cat photo today, and stomped out of the water with the indignation and stink eye only a seven-year old girl can muster.

My walk home was huffy and pouty, but I broke the news to my dad and got to ride next to him on the green John Deere, vicariously saving the day as the chains were attached and the Jeep finally pulled free from the hole we’d dug for ourselves.

Linking up with Yeah Write again. Come check it out.

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April 23, 2013 · 4:57 pm

The Red Wasp and the Stetson

I woke up early and shimmied into the only pair of jeans I’d packed that summer. I didn’t have a pair of boots and my only concern was that he wouldn’t let me ride without a proper heel on my shoes.

I stood on the porch of my grandmother’s house.

Waiting.

I hopped up the cement steps and back down again dodging the wasps and yellow jackets that occasionally buzzed around me. I walked up the red dirt driveway to the first gate, then turned around and kicked rocks back to the house. My ears strained at the country silence, confident that the deafening sound of nothing would soon give way to the roar of his truck approaching.

My uncle promised we’d ride horses, and I believed him.

I didn’t give a second thought to the drink in his hand the night before.

They were all drinking.

The sickly, sweet smell that came from his breath and his skin seemed as normal to me as dodging the red tip of the cigarette he was never quite aware of when I went in for a hug.

I knew he liked to sleep late, and sometimes he got sick and didn’t show up when he said he would, but for the most part, my faith in him was still intact. With childish optimism I ignored the repeated warnings from my family not to get my hopes up too high.

My only understanding of the word alcoholic at the time was to never sneak sips of his morning orange juice because it burned and tasted like hairspray. If Uncle Vernon had it, in my mind, addiction couldn’t be all bad, and probably just meant hilarious and fun.

The hours passed and I wanted them back.

I kept listening for him, but I let go of the idea of riding that day and went inside to stand under the swamp coolers. It was too late, too hot to do anything. The poodles started their serenade of yippy barks just as my resignation sank in completely.

I ran outside to greet him, brushing away the red wasp that followed me to his truck. I yanked the door open for him and greeted him too loudly according to the grimace on his face.

As he stepped out, he picked me up into a hug and I grabbed the Stetson off his head. I tried it on like all young girls do, but instead of admiring my cuteness, he set me down abruptly and started walking toward the house.

The wasp buzzed by me again, and I flicked at it with the hat.

“Be careful with that, Rachelle. That’s my nice Stetson. Here, let me have it.”

My face fell at his brusque tone, and I started to hand it back.

Before he could take it from me, the red wasp landed and hunched its poison into my outstretched hand. I shrieked in pain and flung his white Stetson straight into the rust colored mud.

“Goddamnit, kid.”

I quickly grabbed the hat out of the puddle and tried to wipe the stains away. He snatched it away from me and walked inside. Furious.

Hungover, cursing, and furious.

As he drove away a while later, without mentioning the horses at all, it never even occurred to me that he didn’t remember–his promise probably lost to the swirl of a blackout as soon as the words were uttered.

I was being punished for not being tough enough and dropping his hat.

I let him down.

Linking up with Yeah Write today. Check out the grid this week!

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April 18, 2013 · 3:16 pm

Unacceptable Kiosk Tactics

Summer is coming.

If Game of Thrones was set in Texas, that would be the only acceptable tag line.

I started packing away my cold weather cookie pants this week, and I tried on a few pairs of my shorts yesterday before deciding that I need new shorts–my winter chub came in full and fluffy this year, and obviously I dried everything on Shrinky Dink setting before packing them away a few months ago.

Since my pregnancy, I’ve slowly started to accept that I’m left with a Gap body.

Their jeans are about the only brand that fit my lower half now, and in the interest of one-stop shopping I get most of my shirts there too.

So it was not intentional and I was not being ironic yesterday when I walked to my car and realized I was dressed from head to toe in clothes from the Gap–headed out to buy more clothes from the Gap.

Gaptastic.

The only thing that made me feel better about being their walking billboard was that I was going to the outlet mall.

Discount Gap.

I was hopeful that they’d done new things in shorts this year, and I wouldn’t be left with two style options, cheeks out, lady bits playing peek-a-boo length or grab a shovel, we’re going clam digging length, but alas, it does not seem that fashion has changed recently.

A nice plum color here available at Old Navy while supplies last. credit: bundyology.com

A nice plum color here available at Old Navy and grandma’s closet while supplies last. credit: bundyology.com

I’ve really tried to embrace capris as an after 30, shorts alternative but I always feel like Peggy Bundy when I put them on.

Always.

Now that they come in a variety of Easter egg colors, I’m really tempted to just dye my hair red, drag out an 80s belt or Unit, purchase a few pairs of skin-tight jegging capris including a leopard print, swap Peggy’s stilettos for a ballet flat, and charge a Bump-It on backorder with QVC.

My hair is ideally suited for bouffant anyway, so I might as well get on board with this throw back style before another one that I hate even more comes along.

We pulled into the parking lot at the outlet mall, and I loaded my daughter into her stroller, knowing that she wouldn’t stay there long.

After trying on some shorts in my “maybe I can find something that fits that isn’t from the Gap,” store, she demanded loudly to be allowed to walk, and I complied.

Now she’s pushing her own stroller around this store with her bag of goldfish as the terrified passenger, crashing into my ankles every other step, and shouting, “No, MINE!” every time I tried to help her guide the thing in the right direction.

She’s really good at being two, what can I say?

I was ready to give up and head back to the car, but we came for the Gap, so we were going to the effin’ Gap.

We made our way toddler speed toward our final destination, and I noticed a new Carnival Cruise kiosk ahead next to the Crocs outlet.

Location, location, location.

I’m not a cruise person to begin with, but after Carnival’s recent brand killing headlines, I gave the kiosk a wide berth, and put on my not interested face.

The woman working the kiosk was not deterred, and as we approached I watched her pull something out from under her counter.

What the shit, lady?

Bubbles?!?!??

She smirked at me, and started blowing bubbles in my daughter’s direction.

Like most children, my daughter loves bubbles. She gets excited about the bubbles on my screen saver, and tries to pop them on tv. She goes ape shit for real bubbles and that’s exactly what happened when she saw them.

Abandoned, toppled over stroller, beeline for the Carnival Bubble lady.

I tried to be annoyed, but honestly, I just stood in awe of her evil genius tactics.

There was no way any person with a child in tow would be able to avoid her kiosk that day.

As my daughter popped every bubble she blew and started gleefully squealing, “Again, AGAIN!” at her, it was my turn to smirk. Round five came and went, and she still had not made her pitch.

You started this game, sweetie, now you get to say no more and watch her lower lip shaking as she begins to cry because, “Where did my bubbles go?!?!”

Twenty minutes later as we finally walked into the Gap and K’s tantrum began to fade away, I shook my head and realized how easy it can be to destroy a brand in my mind.

Carnival passengers being stranded for days might have faded from my memory eventually, but this bubble incident will probably stick around forever.

And I didn’t find any shorts that fit so…

Unacceptable kiosk tactics, Carnival.

Genius, but unacceptable.

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